Brakes squealed. The clamor of the engines seemed incredibly loud. One of the vans sideswiped the edge of a caved-in building, dislodging pieces of brick. Another plowed through a heap of pots and pans, sending them flying into the air. The vehicles slowly pulled up in a wedge and came to a stop, although the engines continued to roar. They effectively blocked the road. The front and rear windows of the vans were tinted. Heavy steel bars were welded to the bumpers. Huge truck wheels lifted them up four feet from the ground. The engines cut off simultaneously. The back doors were flung open, and a dozen figures in white hazmat suits spilled out. They wore shiny headgear and heavy, laced boots and carried small black boxes. Their hands looked like they were made of marble, and Lucy realized they were wearing white surgical gloves. Someone else appeared around the side of a van, holding the ends of several thick leashes in his black leather-clad hands. Four vicious-looking dogs struggled to free themselves from their trainer. They were powerfully built, with barrel-chested black and tan bodies. Rottweilers and German shepherds, Lucy thought, watching their noses scent the air, ears pressed flat against their skulls.
Aidan stood with the dark-haired girl and an older man, who was muscular with a shaved head and the glimmer of gold in both ears. He looked five or six years younger than Lucy’s father had been. Mid-thirties, she guessed. His bulky arms were inked with swirling blue tattoos, his calves bulged, and his back was ramrod straight. There was something military about him, as if he’d been trained for conflict. Lucy glanced from the teenagers standing in their thin line to the Sweepers who had spread out in a solid row. The Sweepers stood shoulder to shoulder, their helmets reflecting the sunlight. They looked as impenetrable as a steel wall. The teenagers didn’t stand a chance.
Lucy fought the urge to run. Adrenaline scurried up and down her spine. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion, but she knew it had barely been a minute or two since the vans arrived. The Sweepers moved forward. Aidan and the others faced them, flimsy weapons ready. The bald man raised his hand. Chunks of stone flew through the air. Lucy heard the clatter as they connected with the Sweepers’ headgear. Aidan yelled something indecipherable, but the anger was clear, and a second volley of rocks flew. One of the Sweepers broke ranks and took a wild swing at him—the blow missed his nose but connected with the side of his head. Aidan staggered and threw a punch back. The Sweeper dodged it and darted back to his line. Aidan pressed his hand to his cheek. Lucy winced. She could see the scarlet welt.
The black-haired girl erupted into a barrage of curses. Another volley of stones flew through the air, followed by a hail of garbage: old tin cans and bottles. It had no effect from what Lucy could see. Slowly Aidan and the others were forced backward against a wall. Lucy stood up. No one was paying any attention to anything that was happening outside the square. Anxiety coursed through her; she felt ill and riled up all at the same time. She had a clear view from where she stood. The Sweepers looked like white chess pieces in their close ranks. Two of them were sidling to the right, trying to flank the kids. Lucy pursed her lips and howled again. Aidan shouted something and another volley of garbage spattered against the dark visors. The Sweepers reformed into their solid line. Lucy couldn’t understand why the kids didn’t just rush them. They seemed to approach no closer than ten feet. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see more clearly. The slim black boxes that the Sweepers carried looked like old-fashioned transistor radios. She didn’t notice any weapons.
Suddenly the bald man rushed forward with a roar. Eight of the Sweepers closed around him. The remaining four faced Aidan and the rest of the teenagers. They stood locked in some kind of staring contest. Lucy couldn’t understand it. Only the bald man did anything, and he was a blur of motion. He jabbed a punch, ducking low and driving up with an uppercut that struck a Sweeper under the chin and sent his head snapping back on his neck. Another Sweeper rushed him from behind. He pivoted, kicking out with one leg. His booted foot connected with an arm. Lucy heard a crack like the snapping of a twig. His momentum carried him forward. He spun again and slammed his boot into the chest of the nearest Sweeper who fell to his knees. The bald man skipped backward, keeping a safe distance. The teenagers cheered.
Aidan picked up a discarded length of metal pipe. “Leo,” he shouted, darting into a clear space. Leo ducked a blow and raised his arm high. Aidan threw the steel bar. Leo caught it and swept it around in a circle. The men fell back. Leo swung the bar as if it were an ax, catching a Sweeper behind the knees and bringing him down. Moving so quickly that his hands were a blur, he brought up the pipe like a spear and jabbed a second man in the back and another in the belly. His breath was coming in gusts now, and his broad chest was heaving. His movements slowed, but they were no less deadly or accurate. The five or six Sweepers who were still on their feet circled him warily. He held the bar easily in one hand, his head swiveling to clock their movements, but there were too many of them.
Aidan and the teenagers moved forward with their rocks and pieces of wood. The Sweepers moved back.
And then, all of a sudden, the dogs were among them, loosed from their leashes, advancing slowly, the fur raised along their spines, tails curled against their flanks. Even from where she crouched, Lucy could hear the rumbling growls, and, terrified, she buried her face in her arms.
Could they smell her from here?
The Sweepers broke ranks, two remaining in place while the dogs circled, growling continuously, keeping the teenagers at bay. A red-haired boy, not much older than Lucy’s brother, darted forward, screaming and stabbing the air with a heavy stick. The dog trainer made a gesture with one hand, and immediately one of the German shepherds was on the kid, hurling him backward, its jaws clamped on his forearm. The boy screamed, an awful high-pitched noise. The trainer shouted something and the dog released the arm, but settled its weight across the kid’s chest, pinning him on the ground. Its jaws were inches from the boy’s pale face.
Leo dropped his weapon and stepped back. His eyes were on the boy and the dog. None of the teenagers moved. It was as if they were frozen.
The hazmat-suited men dispersed; only the dog trainer remained where he was. Making their way around the perimeter of the square, the rest of them conducted a search, shining powerful flashlights into the tents and plywood huts.
Lucy heard a patter of voices and an excited yell from inside one of the shelters.
“Hold your ground,” Aidan shouted. At his side, the dark-haired girl tossed a stick from hand to hand. Her face was turned toward his, and Lucy could see the rage disfiguring her features as she argued with him.